by Owen Thomas
“And if we lose we appeal?”
“Lose? David! We haven’t even started to fight yet. You gotta change your attitude. You’re as cute as they fuckin’ come but you’ve got the optimism of god damned Thanksgiving turkey.”
“If, Glenda. I said if we lose. I didn’t say I thought we would…”
“If we lose, then we can appeal. Okay? Except a court’s gonna be so protective of the school board’s decision, it probably won’t be worth the effort at that point.”
“Now who’s pessimistic?”
Glenda bangs the empty mug on the table. “Don’t make me crawl over there and beat you. ‘Cause I will fuckin’ do it. I will beat that irresistible ass of yours until it glows so red the folks over in Cincinnati will think the state capitol is on fire.”
I know she is joking, because she has to be. She must be. I can feel my eyes widen anyway and my legs tense up, ready to move if they have to. She is smiling at me, more with her eyes than her mouth. I relax.
“Aaarrrg!”
Glenda leans in and seizes the edge of the table, shaking it violently. A fork and napkin fall to the floor. Without thinking, I am out of the booth and standing next to the man-child server who has frozen in mid-refill trajectory, clutching a plastic beer pitcher.
My attorney is now openly laughing.
Glenda recovers quickly. She fishes through her bag for a billfold, leaves more money than is necessary on the table and, with some effort, swings her legs out of the booth, extending a hand demurely in our direction.
The man-child pats me on the shoulder, thinking but not saying that I am a poor bastard who will never make it through the night, and vanishes in thin air. I clasp the waiting hand.
“Why thank you, kind sir,” she says in a falsetto as she steps down from the booth, bats her frosted eyes and flattens out her clothing. And then, in the voice I have come to fear, “I tell ya’, you can fuckin’ move when you’re motivated, Dave.”
“I . . .”
“Just you stay motivated, ‘cause we’re gonna win this fuckin’ thing.”
We walk back the way we came. It is dark and a breeze has kicked up but it is still pleasantly warm. We say little. Every block presents a store window at which Glenda must linger and consider something inside. The stores are closed so she can do no more than look, but there is something oddly familiar about the idle lingering and our shuffling gate that registers in my gut. The evening has started to feel disturbingly like a date.
“Check out the earrings on that little biscuit,” she says, pointing past empty glass display cases and a slick marble counter to a pouty headshot on the wall. “Hmm. Yeah, those are nice. Whaddya think?”
She turns and uses both hands to pull her hair up above her ears. For a split second, I see her in a negligee.
“Ignore these.” She shakes her head to swing the large silver, triangular earrings she is already wearing. Because her arms are up, the rest of her sways too. I remember Mae’s stories of Glenda’s penchant for gobbling up the office associates and the date feeling in my stomach flips over.
“Very nice,” I say nodding with too much enthusiasm.
“These or those? You like these?” Her hands are occupied with her hair, so she isn’t pointing. “These?”
I don’t know what she’s referring to anymore.
“I . . . they all look nice.”
“Too big for you?”
“Me? No. No. Big is good. Big is nice.”
“Hmm.” Glenda drops her hands to her hips and turns back to the window, considering the photo anew. “Hmm.”
“I really should be getting on home,” I say. “It’s turning into a long day.”
“Oh, yeah, what am I thinking?” she asks herself with genuine remorse. She starts to walk again; faster now. “Sorry, Dave. Don’t be so goddamned polite. Just tell me to stop fuckin’ around and get my big ass in gear. Anyone tell you you’re too fuckin’ nice?”
“A few.”
“You probably wouldn’t be in this mess if you were more of a prick.” She slugs me in the shoulder.
She is right, of course. There is something about the nice guys finish last sentiment buried in her comment that reminds me of Mae and Shepp sitting in the window of Savannah’s. I am angry and humiliated all over again. Savannah’s reminds me that I am parked nowhere near the police station.
“I need to get a cab.”
“Oh, right. Where are you?”
“Couple of blocks from your office.”
“I’m right up here. I’ll give you a lift.”
She drives a taupe, leather-lined S.U.V., immaculate inside and out. Something classical flutters around – Bach, I think – when she starts the engine. We are up so high compared to my usual vantage point that I feel like I’m in a mobile building. Glenda’s tower of hair mashes up against the sunroof.
We reach my parking place, but my car is gone. Glenda double parks and we get out and stand on the curb where so very long ago I looked at my stoned reflection in the window of my newly painted Civic.
“Do you normally lock your doors?”
“Yes.”
“Windows?”
“Up.”
“Fucker.”
“Who?”
“North. It’s been impounded.”
“Are you sure?”
“You see any broken glass? They’re really fuckin’ with you, Dave. You’ve got ‘em really worked into a lather. Rat fuckers. Well, it’s way too late now. You’ll have to get it tomorrow. Probably out three hundred bucks though.”
I look around stupidly, as if I am wrong about where I parked or maybe the car changed spaces on its own.
“Shit. Well …” I look up the street and then the other way. Seeing nothing for hire, I fish my cell phone out of the pocket of my jeans and dial directory assistance. “Columbus . . . Ohio . . .Shamrock . . . Taxi,” I say slowly, enunciating carefully, to the uncaring recorded voice in my ear.
Glenda snatches the phone out of my hand, closes it and stuffs it back into the front pocket of my jeans. There is . . . contact. A grazing. It feels her hand, but I cannot tell if her hand feels it.
“What . . .” I say.
“Get in the fuckin’ car. I’ll get you home.”
“Glenda, I can’t ask you to …”
“I’m a full service lawyer, Dave.”
I’m not exactly sure what that means, but I know better than to fight. I climb back up into the four-wheel building and strap myself in. Glenda surges invincibly through the streets of Columbus as she changes the music. I am wrong about Bach. It was Schubert, but she tells me she is in the mood for Shostakovich. She seems to know her classical music. I am largely indifferent, caring much more passionately about the man with a backpack stepping out onto 3rd Street as we rip past the mall.
I almost cry out, but we clear his left arm and the danger is past before the sound escapes my throat. I have at least jammed the imaginary brake into the floorboards. Glenda is unfazed.
We make it to the freeway she asks for specific directions to my house.
“So what’s the deal with Mae Chang?”
The non sequitur throws me and I take an unnatural interest in a blue truck that sits empty in the emergency lane, its hazards flashing.
“I don’t know,” I say after a long minute of seeing Mae and Mark Shepherd on a dinner date. I feel Glenda looking at me.
“Hmm. I think I should have been more specific. Let me start that one again. That Mae Chang, boy, she sure is a sharp one. No one at the office can figure out why she doesn’t just go to law school and get a degree.”
“Aaahhh. So what’s the deal with Mae Chang in that sense.”
“Yeah, but now I’ve completely lost interest. Tell ‘ya what Dave.” She reaches over and gives my shoulder a sharp push with her fingertips. My head thunks against the window. “Fuck Mae Chang.”
I don’t respond to that one either and we both seem content to leave the ambiguity of that command hang
ing.
When we pull into my driveway, it is nearly midnight. My day has long since caught up with me and I feel exhausted. I long to be horizontal.
“Well, listen, thanks so much for the ride. You really didn’t…”
“Mind if I come in?” She asks.
“Uh…” I say, blinking slowly. “Well. No. No. Sure. Come on in.”
She smiles and braces me behind the neck with a soft, warm palm. “It’s sweet of you to misunderstand my motives, Dave. Really. Maybe if we had more of an evening. But, see, your house has just been searched by the police and I’d like to get a first-hand look before you start putting all of your shit back where it belongs.”
I am blushing like I am on fire. Glenda disembarks and heads up to the door.
I am not prepared for the sense of violation. The police have not left the place like drug lords looking for hidden product or money – the sofa cushions have not been gutted and strewn – but curious, inquisitive strangers have clearly been … here. Everywhere. I do not keep an orderly home, but I know how I left things and this is not it. Drawers are ajar. Closet doors are open. A stack of shirts, still on the hangers, is draped over the back of the couch. The framed photo of me and Mae is on the floor, leaning up against the wall directly beneath the space where it used to hang. The photo is facing the wall, clearly North’s way of calling me a liar.
There is an official yellow notice on the kitchen counter advising me of a search conducted pursuant to a valid warrant issued by order of Judge Andrew Milsch in accordance with section blah, blah, blah. A copy of the warrant is attached.
“So if I were an innocent bag of marijuana, where might I be found?”
Glenda is walking around with her hands clasped behind her back. I find the sight of her in this place disconcerting. In fact, experiencing Glenda anywhere outside a police interrogation room is a little odd, which has given most of the evening a surreal quality.
“With the fish food,” I say, still looking at the paperwork. “They left a note.”
“How polite. In here?” She is poking around in the packets of green flakes in the open drawer beneath the fish tank.
“No. In that box.” I point to the box of extra fish supplies I never use. The box, now on its side, has been emptied onto the coffee table in the living room. She leaves the supply drawer and heads for the box.
“Okay, so it was like in a baggie or something inside this box?”
“It was in a zipped baggie, which was inside that can of fish flakes…”
“Which can?”
“The larger one, which was inside that box, which was on the top shelf of that closet.” I point down the hallway. Glenda is up and moving for the closet.
“Top shelf?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just hmm. Did they leave a copy of the warrant?”
“Yeah. It’s right here.”
“I want to take that shit with me when I go. Mind if I head on into the bedroom?”
“What for?” A stupid question and she does not let it slide.
“‘Cause I wanna slip out of these clothes and take a hot shower, Dave. You got a problem with that?”
“Sorry.”
“You got fuckin’ on the brain tonight, boy. Something about crime scenes must turn you on.”
“No. No. It’s not that… I wasn’t…”
“Uh huh.”
“And this is not a crime scene.”
She disappears through the doorway to my bedroom. I do not want to be in there with her. I survey my living room, taking in all of my tiny kingdom that is out of place. God damned Brittany. God damned Detective North’s niece. This is my home.
On the coffee table next to the over-turned box is a stack of envelopes and catalogues. The police have brought in my fucking mail. That can’t be legal. Isn’t the mail off limits? I walk over and sort through the stack to see if any of it is opened.
In the middle is an envelope from Chaney, Baker, Smith & Lyons, Attorneys at Law. I can hear Glenda rummaging around in my closet. I drop the rest of the mail and open the envelope.
Dear Mr. Johns:
This letter will confirm our agreement to represent your legal interests in all matters regarding (1) any and all pending criminal investigations in which you are involved and (2) all matters pertaining to your employment by the Columbus School District. I look forward to working closely with you to resolve these matters as expeditiously as possible. Enclosed, please find the standard terms and conditions of representation and a bill for services rendered to date. Given your circumstances, I have prevailed upon the firm to waive the normal advance retainer requirement. Bills for services rendered are due upon receipt and accrue interest according to the policy enclosed herewith. I will be in contact shortly to discuss your case further. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Glenda C. Leveau, Esq.
I leaf through the pages to find the invoice knowing that this is precisely the thing I do not really want to do. There are three pages of legal services rendered. The total on the last page is the only thing I really see. I owe Chaney, Baker, Smith & Lyons slightly over…holy… fifteen thousand dollars. Fif-teen… thou-sand…That does not include anything Glenda did today, most notably post my bail. Fifteen. Really? Fifteen? I feel like I have swallowed a hot charcoal briquette. Thousand. Fif…This is not something I can deal with at the moment. I stuff the papers back in the envelope.
“You keep anything up on this shelf?” Glenda sounds like she is in the closet.
“The closet?”
“What?”
“The closet shelf?”
“Yeah.”
“Clothes and blankets.”
“Don’t you fuck with me. You know what I mean. Anything bad. Narcotics and violins.”
“No.” I walk to the bedroom and lean against the door jam. “And I don’t have her violin.” Glenda backs out of the closet pinching a pair of boxers between her fingers.
“Damn. When was the last time you did laundry?”
“I do laundry.”
“If you say so.”
“I can’t pay your bill.”
It is out of my mouth suddenly and without warning or decision to speak. For a split second I believe that I am only thinking these words, which have been violently ricocheting around my brain every second since I reviewed the invoice. But I can tell by her face that I have done more than simply think the words.
“I can’t pay your bill.”
“What does that have to do with your dirty laundry? Well, your actual dirty laundry, not your metaphorical dirty laundry.”
“Nothing. I just opened your bill. I can’t pay it.”
“I know you’re strapped. I waived the retainer didn’t I?”
“I still can’t pay it. Not even a small part of it. I’m out of a job at the moment. I don’t have any savings.”
We stare at each other for a moment over my unmade bed. Her expression is inscrutably calm and unyielding.
“Oh, David. David, David, David.”
“I’m sorry. I should have …”
“You’re still in denial about all of this, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“I’ve been too candid in my optimism about this case, and that’s something a lawyer should never do.”
“I … Glenda, I don’t understand what you’re …”
“I’ve told you I think I can take care of this fuckin’ mess. And that’s the God’s honest truth. I think I can. But the problem is that you have taken my optimism to heart. Hell, I have all but shamed you out of being anything other than optimistic. And for that, David, I am truly sorry. I should have been more equivocal.”
She does not take her lavender cow eyes off of me, nor blink them, as she speaks. She does, however, slowly twirl my underwear like a blue paisley propeller.
“Okay, don’t do that,” I say, pointing to the propeller. But Glenda is undeterred.
>
“See, that’s what lawyers do better than anything in the world; equivocate. And I should have equivocated. I should have equivocated for your benefit and mine. Because you, David, have no reason right now to be so confident in an uncertain world.”
“You think I’m not worried?” It is almost a shout. I can feel the terror welling up.
“Not enough. Your ass ought to be in a state of perpetual pucker, my friend, and these shorts of yours ought’a be a whole lot dirtier than they are. ‘Cause you are in one fuck of a shit storm. The good money is probably on you without a teaching career of any kind anywhere ever again. And if Brittany Kline shows up beaten, raped, dead or all of the above, you could well be the fall guy looking at a twenty-year stretch. Then next year’s history books could have a footnote or two devoted just to you.”
“But I haven’t done anything except smoke a little pot.”
“And play tonsil-hockey with one of your students in a bar after pocketing not only her pot, but also her coke and ecstasy for safe-keeping, which according to the evidence was right before you took her home for a little private tutoring session which, importantly, was the last time anyone laid eyes on that young, sweet little violin prodigy – that darling, long-lost mascot of the Columbus Police Department – before she showed up in a trash bag out at the landfill.”
“Jesus.”
“Come on, David. You think innocent people never get convicted in this country? You’re the history buff.”
“But you said…”
“I know what I fuckin’ said, David. I said I think I can get you out of it and I stand by that assessment. But I don’t work for free, and on something like this you will not find anybody who will work for free. My rates are lower than most and I don’t charge extra for the taxi service or the fuckin’ charm.”
“Legal aid. I can get a public defender.”
“Yeah. Maybe. But even if you qualify, that’s not a winning game plan, Dave. Now is not the time in your life to go bargain hunting. Some of those boys are okay, but not many. They’re all strapped for time and resources, and your case would be only one of dozens for any of them. And in the end, Dave, they don’t give a wet rat-fuck about you.”
